


Sleeping Beauty

by WoodsWitch



Series: Flights of Fancy [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 19th century stress nap, Do Overs, Domestic, Dreams, Established Relationship, Kissing, Lonely remorseful Aziraphale, M/M, Mildly demonic home improvement projects, past angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26129986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodsWitch/pseuds/WoodsWitch
Summary: Flights of Fancy, part 5:The demon fidgeted slightly. "You know what was weird? Back then, I mean. I kept dreaming that I was, well, right where I was. Asleep. And that...you came to visit me."The angel cleared his throat. "Oh. Well. Perhaps that's because I did.""Youdid?""Of course I did! Crowley, you disappeared for several decades, showed up asking for the one thing that could actually kill you, we had a tremendous row about it, and then you vanished again! I was worried sick!"In which Crowley's unusual early-morning activity leads to revelations concerning his 19th century stress nap.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Flights of Fancy [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867303
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Sleeping Beauty

Aziraphale awoke to a cacophony of shouts, honks, and thumps. Waking up was a weird experience at the best of times for a being who rarely slept, but _this_... He groaned and shoved his head under the pillow. It was no good, though; there was no turning off his senses again with all _that_ going on. His consciousness, which had been taking the inventory of its surroundings, tapped him on the shoulder to point out the empty spot on the left side of the bed where there ought to have been an equally sleepy and irritated demon.

"Of course. I should have known this was _your_ doing."

Crowley turned and grinned at the still bleary-eyed ethereal being grumpily clutching a winged mug of tea. "Morning, sunshine! Yeah, yeah - over _there_ ," he shouted at a delivery man carrying an immense roll of black plastic tubing.

"What _is_ all of this?"

"Just my garden supplies being delivered," the demon said innocently.

Two workmen were shoveling what appeared to be shredded bark into a pile in the middle of the road. Between that, the huge stack of lumber, and a wall of thirty-five bags of compost and vermiculite, Old Compton Street was impassable to any vehicle larger than a Vespa. On the other side of the shop, a truly massive delivery truck had parked at an angle that very nearly blocked off that road as well, though a little Mini was making a game effort to squeeze by.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the demon. "I can see that, but don't try to tell me that doing it like _this_ was entirely their idea." The honking of angry motorists was getting louder.

Crowley had the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry, Angel. Old habits, you know? Tell you what...Scarlett Green should be far enough from here to be quiet. Why not go have a nice brunch? I'll have all this cleaned up by the time you get back."

"Crowley..."

"C'mon," the demon wheedled. "You know like that thing they do with the fish and the egg and the avocado. There's a table waiting for you. Take a book. Relax."

Aziraphale glared, but the lure of smoked salmon royale was strong. " _Fine._ But don't think we're not talking about this later."

An excellent breakfast, two mimosas, and half of 'A woman of no importance' did a great deal to improve the angel's temper. After all, as one of Wilde's characters so wisely pointed out: "After a good dinner, one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations". Not that it was ever all that difficult to forgive his favorite demon, whose penchant for minor mischief simply came with the territory. Indeed, the only times he could recall being truly _angry_ at his companion of six thousand years had been when Crowley either disappeared without a word for decades, or did something massively reckless in the opposite direction that risked hell catching on to their Arrangement and putting an end to it in a terminal manner. Looking back, of course, it was clear that most of these episodes had stemmed from the psychological difficulty of nursing an apparently doomed affection for millennia. Self-delusion did have its advantages, when it came to avoiding conscious angst. Aziraphale sighed. Well, that was all behind them, now.

The street outside the shop was clear when he returned; There was not a speck of mulch on the pavement, nothing to suggest the chaos of the morning. There was, however, a box of chocolates on his desk, and a demon with a plant mister lurking behind a large _Monstera_ vine trying to look nonchalant.

"Have a good brunch?"

"Indeed. If somewhat earlier and more solitary than I'd planned."

"Sorry, Angel." Crowley had the look of a spaniel who, having overturned the dustbins in his family's absence, was worried about their reaction - but would undoubtedly do it again at some point in the future.

The angel sighed. "It's all right, dear." He gave Crowley a peck on the cheek. "Since when are you so energetic in the mornings, anyway?"

The demon shrugged. "Eh, you know how I get when I have a project."

"I suppose I do," Aziraphale conceded.

As much as his default image of Crowley was with glass of wine in hand, languidly draped over some piece of furniture in complete defiance of its intended manner of use, the demon was a perfect whirlwind of activity when he decided something needed to be done. This _having projects_ was good. Crowley had not previously gone in for hobbies much, compared to Aziraphale. The angel had heard that suddenly having long stretches of empty time to fill was enough to tip some humans, particularly those whose existence had been defined by their jobs, into a depression. Crowley had never been all that eager to do hell's bidding, but even embellishing reports to head office took up a decent amount of time. Apparently he needn't have worried. The demon had not only expanded on his gardening, but had taken an interest in the bookshop and seemed to have a sideline in computer-hacking-for-hire. And, should scaring off the more annoying sort of customer not be sufficient, he still occasionally wandered off to cause random chaos in the city1.

"Though I'd rather you do the noisier sort of mischief somewhere _other_ than our doorstep at six am," Aziraphale noted, "It's certainly preferable to having you go to sleep for half a century."

Crowley flinched. "Not planning on doing that again. You know that was kind of a special case, yeah?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Yes, my dear. I know."

The demon fidgeted slightly. "You know what was weird? Back then, I mean. I kept dreaming that I was, well, right where I was. Asleep. And that...you came to visit me."

The angel cleared his throat. "Oh. Well. Perhaps that's because I did."

"You _did_?"

"Of course I did! Crowley, you disappeared for several decades, showed up asking for the one thing that could actually kill you, we had a tremendous row about it, and then you vanished again! I was worried sick!"

"I did try to explain that I wasn't planning on offing myself," the demon said - really quite patiently, though whether that was _because_ or _in spite of_ their having had this conversation many times before was unclear.

Aziraphale snorted. "Oh, _forgive me_ for not believing you! You were behaving so oddly, my dear! The only reason I didn't come chasing after you the next day was that I could sense you staying close to home and therefore presumably _not_ seeking out another source for the stuff. But then you just didn't move _at all_ for two months, and I couldn't take the speculation anymore."

~~~

If Aziraphale hadn't known which in the row of elegant townhouses was Crowley's, the red door with the ouroboros knocker would probably have tipped him off. He seized the bronze serpent and gave three sharp raps. There was no response from within. The angel went around the back to try the tradesman's entrance. Nothing, even though he could _feel_ the demon's presence inside the quiet house.

The angel bit his lip. He should probably just take a hint. Crowley clearly didn't want to see him. But this complete lack of activity wasn't like the demon at all. Aziraphale hadn't really seen him for the previous three decades either, but that was different. The dark flame that marked Crowley's presence to his ethereal senses had at least moved around from time to time, and he had spotted several events and inventions that smacked of his adversary's eccentric style of demonic influence. Those illustrated card things that humans had started sending one another on certain holidays, for instance2. And there had been six letters, all hinting that Crowley was off doing an assignment in some far-flung corner of the world or other, even though Aziraphale could sense perfectly well that the demon had barely left London. Given that they were all written with the same grumpily affectionate tone the angel had come to expect, this dissimulation about their origin points was a bit odd. But perhaps the demon had needed to lay low for a while, to... _Oh, no._

Aziraphale swallowed. _'What if it all goes wrong?' That request for 'insurance.' THAT'S what you were going on about._ Had one of Crowley's colleagues noticed their association? _Oh, dear. And I stormed off without talking to you about it, without working out any alternate plan. And now..._

Aziraphale pounded on the door again, louder and more desperately. "Crowley! I know you're in there! Open up, you blasted serpent!"

There was still no answer. Aziraphale placed the palm of his hand against the door. He could feel the prickle of active wards, much like the ones he kept around the bookshop against beings of hostile intent - including _almost_ all demons. The angel could only hope Crowley's wards made a similar exception.

They did; the door swung open silently under his touch. The interior of the townhouse was dark and gloomy, bringing to mind the spooky stories of ghosts and vampires and dilapidated mansions that were so _en vogue_ of late. Some of that was no doubt deliberate, part of the demonic aesthetic Crowley liked to cultivate. But much of the creepy, melancholic feeling came from the sense that the dwelling had been suddenly abandoned. There was a thin layer of dust on every surface and industrious spiders had already set up house in half the corners...and yet the building _was_ inhabited. There was a familiar presence here, and Aziraphale made his way up the stairs toward it.

He found the demon in bed, halfway tangled in the sheets, face pressed into a pillow that he clutched as if he hoped to smother himself3.

"Crowley?" the angel called quietly. "I'm sorry to just barge in like this, but are you quite all right?"

The demon didn't move. Aziraphale stepped closer. "Hello? Crowley?" Still nothing.

Crowley did like to sleep, Aziraphale knew. But this seemed like an unusually long nap, and the demon hardly looked comfortable. Was he perhaps ill, or in some sort of pain? His hands fluttered anxiously over the unconscious demon, wanting to check for symptoms, but not sure if he was allowed to touch.

Then he remembered that time during the Plague when he had overtaxed himself. Crowley had carried him home, tucked him into his own feather bed, and stood guard for two days - when he wasn't out doing the angel's 'good deeds' quota for him4. Surely, even if the demon was angry at him, he was allowed to return the favor in some small part? He pried Crowley's right hand free from the pillow - which elicited a small grunt but no other reaction - and pressed his fingers to the slim pale wrist. The pulse would have been a bit slow for a human, but it was not out of the ordinary for Crowley in his more torpid moments. Aziraphale laid a hand on his brow. There was no sign of fever, but the demon did seem to relax slightly at the touch.

Well, perhaps Crowley was simply exhausted and in need of rest. Though, if that were the case, his current position was not conducive to restorative sleep. Aziraphale set about untangling the demon from the bedding. "What _are_ you wearing, my dear?" the angel muttered, once he had finally succeeded. Crowley was clad in what appeared to be a flimsy pair of trousers and an over-sized shirt, both made of the same black silk. It was not a fashion Aziraphale was familiar with. Then again, the angel was not particularly well informed when it came to nightwear, and the garments did manage to look both comfortable and rather dashing. He shook out the sheet and counterpane and tucked them gently over the sleeping demon.

Crowley stirred, and sighed deeply. _Perhaps I should go_ , the angel thought, but he couldn't quite pull himself away. Neither of them had ever been a child, but the demon looked so much younger like this. Softer, more vulnerable, without the walls that he put up to hide that spark of goodness that was so dangerous a quality in hell. Aziraphale sat down on a dark wooden chair and watched Crowley breathe for a while.

"I'm sorry, dear boy," he whispered. "I just...I don't want to lose you, my dear. I miss you already."

The demon stirred again. "'Ziraph'l," he muttered.

"Crowley?" the angel replied, straightening up his posture with nervous anticipation. But the demon merely rolled over and began to snore.

~~~

"Anyway, that was what it was like the first time," Aziraphale concluded.

"First time? Angel, how many times did you visit me while I was sleeping?"

"Well, I tried to be moderate. In case anyone was monitoring your flat. Once or twice a year, I think."

Crowley felt a lump form in his throat. "Once or...Angel, you came to look in on me more than forty times?" No wonder he had dreamed of that so often. "Did you...talk to me?"

"Of course! Well, not much initially. I thought perhaps you needed the rest, so I just whispered a bit like the first time. But by 1880 I was a bit annoyed and I think my comments got rather louder and saltier."

The demon grinned. "They did?" He did recall one dream that involved the angel saying something like: _I know slothfulness is a vice, and therefore encouraged, but this is simply excessive, you lazy lump of a demon!_

"Yes!" Aziraphale crossed his arms with a small _harrumph_. "My dear, it was getting ridiculous. I had to fill in quite a few reports for you, you know."

Crowley goggled at him. "You what?"

"Reports. Of your infernal deeds."

"I'm sorry - Are you saying you submitted fraudulent paperwork on my behalf? To _hell_?"

The angel _tssked_ in an annoyed way. "Well, what else was I supposed to do? They were going to notice if you went dark for multiple decades, Crowley!"

The demon's jaw dropped. "B...Wh... _How?_ "

"Well, it's not like I haven't seen how you do it. And, um...well, I had enough of your old letters stashed away that it wasn't too hard to mimic your handwriting. The sigil was easy. I could have drawn it in my sleep - _if_ I slept, which I didn't at the time, unlike _someone_ I could mention."

Crowley ignored the barbed tone, and decided to leave the comment about the sigil and the letters for later as well. "And, uh, these infernal deeds?"

The angel waved a hand. "Oh, I plucked things from the papers here and there. Most of your reports were just taking credit for things humans did anyway, weren't they?"

There was a long pause. Then Crowley threw back his head and cackled.

Aziraphale blinked. He didn't know what reaction he'd been expecting, exactly, but this was not it. The demon was clearly trying to pull himself together, but he kept breaking down into fits of giggling and snorting.

"My dear, _what_ exactly is so funny?"

"Sssorry, Angel," the demon half gasped, half hissed, "It...It's just... _How_ do you always end up getting into more trouble _without_ me?"

Aziraphale looked affronted. "I _beg_ your pardon?!"

Crowley grinned. "Don't get tetchy. Let's review, shall we? I already knew that your activities that century included studying stage magic despite your ability to do _actual miracles_ " - he began ticking off the points on his fingers - "developing an oddly academic interest in human erotica, joining that 'discrete gentlemen's club' just to learn how to gavotte5, and hanging out with people like Wilde, Marx, Pankhurst, Ms. 'Sand'... Oh, and the infamous Fanny and Stella, of course. All of which would have ranged somewhere between 'weird but probably harmless' to 'moderately concerning' as far as Gabriel was concerned, yeah? And on top of that we add 'impersonating a demon to forge reports to hell'? Angel, a good chunk of my little personal crisis had to do with worrying that my presence was going to end up irrevocably tainting you. But, by the sound of it, it's a good thing I woke up before an Archangel concluded you were either some kind of double agent or had just lost your marbles due to being down on earth too long."

Aziraphale sniffed. "Well, as for the double agent thing, I'd say we _both_ rather of fit that description so far as our former bosses are concerned. As for the other..." He sighed. "I think perhaps I _was_ going a little bit mad. I was trying to distract myself from worrying about you. Though that is considerably more clear in retrospect than it was at the time."

' _Awwww_ ' is not a very demonic sound. But that didn't mean Crowley couldn't think it. "So...you were seeking out the most scandalous, rule-questioning humans you could find because you _missed me_?"

"I suppose I was," the angel conceded.

Crowley stepped in close, and wrapped the angel in his long arms. "Missed you too," he said hoarsely.

"But you were unconscious," Aziraphale said quietly.

Chin tucked into a nest of silver curls, the demon sighed. "Yeah. Because I thought I'd messed everything up. Thought you might really be calling the whole Arrangement off. Or, even if you weren't, that, that _I_ should. Because you were right. If heaven found out you were hanging around me, that we'd been doing each other's jobs, even, the consequences...You didn't deserve that, Angel. And yet even with the Arrangement, I was greedy. We were together for a few days at least every year by that point, but I always wanted more. So in...1834, I think it was, I told myself I'd keep away for a few decades. No big deal, right? We'd done it before." Crowley squeezed his angel tighter. "It was _agony_. So I thought - _Right. If I can't give him up, I can at least take precautions._ Practiced my hellfire-spitting a bit, not that that would have helped much against an Archangel. But if my lot decided to cause trouble, there was one obvious weapon..."

"Oh, my dear. I wish I'd listened, given you time to explain."

Crowley's shirt was starting to feel a bit damp. Luckily, angel tears didn't burn, but that didn't mean he liked them. "Hey, hey. None of that. It's not like I helped matters, snapping over word choice and claiming I didn't need you when the whole reason we were having that conversation is that _I did_. Anyway, when I got home, I decided I'd just go to sleep until I could cope with it all. That, ah, took a bit longer than I anticipated."

Aziraphale, face still buried in the demon's chest, made a noise somewhere between choking and laughing. "Do you know _why_ I called it 'fraternizing'?"

"No, I...Well, it _felt_ like you were making light of...what we had. Whatever that was. Which I'd hoped was friendship, at least, by that point."

"Quite the opposite, actually. You see, after the Watchers Fell, Uriel gave the rest of us quite a lecture, emphasizing that on no account were we to _fraternize_ with humans and risk producing any more Nephilim6." Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, storm-grey eyes still damp, but with a bit of a sparkle in their depths. "They never _said_ demons were included in that prohibition; I assumed that went without saying. But I suppose I must have been speculating about it again, because the word just...slipped out."

"Oh, Angel." A crooked grin spread across Crowley's face. "If I'd known _that_ was what you were thinking, I'd never have settled for just dreaming about it for four decades!"

~~~

Crowley tried not to think about too much. That is, he probably _did_ think about it, about _him_ , too much anyway. But he tried to keep it contained. To not let his thoughts, his hopes, run away with him. Remembering - That was all right. Those things were real, and the memories were sprinkled with enough loneliness, enough gentle or not so gentle rejections, to remind him of the state of things. As for the future, imagining sharing a drink or a meal, the way the lines around those grey eyes would crinkle up with pleasure when presented with a rare manuscript or a box of chocolates even as the protest of "Oh, you shouldn't have" fell from his lips... Well, that was at least all within the realm of high probability. But more than that...No, better not to think about it, if he could help it.

Crowley's sleeping mind had no such limits. He dreamt of many things, of course - having over six thousand years of memories provides a lot of material. In his dreams, the demon re-hung the stars; felt the firmament of heaven crack under his feet; slithered through the world's first garden; soared over rising flood waters, a human child clinging to his neck; smuggled forbidden books into inquisition-held territory; drank with pirates, poets, and popes; laughed with long-dead human friends; re-fought old enemies. But Aziraphale was nearly always there, in some form.

The angel was part of many of the memories, of course. As in his waking mind, Crowley relived again and again their meeting on the wall, that adorable wail of: "I _gave it away_!" Over and over, he saw that nervous-but-pleased-looking flutter the angel did when they bumped into one another, felt his deft fingers bandaging his arm after a particularly rough performance review, tasted the oyster he tipped into Crowley's mouth in Rome, looped his arm over his shoulders to be helped out of a certain tavern in Spain. But the angel showed up in more fanciful ways as well. Nattering on about Dante while Crowley paddled a teacup through an ocean of custard. Showing up to one of Beelzebub's staff meetings and presenting a list of complaints from the minor demons in that familiar fussy tone while the Lords of Hell sat around dumbfounded. Sitting at Crowley's bedside going on excitedly about some sort of machine with a horn on it that played music and pens that didn't need to be dipped in ink - "you know I'm not one for new gadgets, my dear, but that is _quite clever_ , don't you think?" - even though the demon was clearly asleep.

He was in the nightmares too. Those were the worst kind. The ones where Crowley was tumbling through the aether, wings on fire, only to catch a glimpse with his bleeding eyes of a plump, silver-haired angel Falling with him. Or the ones where, just as they were in the middle of a delightful drunken debate, Archangels burst in on them with flaming swords. But just when he thought such a dream might put him off sleep forever, there were the others. The ones where, right on the street, where anyone could see, Aziraphale smiled at him and took his hand. The ones where Crowley wrapped his arms around him and kissed him, and the angel kissed him back. The ones where the counterpane turned into white feathers, wrapping him in a mantle of angelic love. Those dreams were sweet enough that he hoped he might never wake up.

~~~

Crowley floated into consciousness. There was sunlight on his face. He blinked. Hadn't he left those velvet draperies closed? He shifted and groaned, knocking something off the edge of the bed. He squinted at the thing on the ground. _A book?_ Simultaneously, his nose was poking at his sleep-drunk brain, trying to get it to notice a sunshiney smell that had never been in this room before.

"Oh, good, you're finally awake!" a familiar voice said cheerfully.

Crowley rolled over slowly, in case a sudden movement should make the presence vanish. "A...Angel?"

Aziraphale was on the other side of the bed. He had clearly made himself comfortable. With his cross-legged seat, the nest of pillows at his back upon which he reclined with one elbow under his head, and the plate of pastries nestled up against one plump thigh, he looked like something out of the local humans' overheated fantasies of harem life. If they had thought to conjure a fully dressed, male-appearing, literate odalisque, that is, with a book in hand and a pair of spectacles he almost certainly didn't need.

"What are you doing here?"

The angel tutted and put down his book. "I was worried about you. It's not safe, leaving your corporation unconscious and unattended for so long."

"So you were what...being my Guardian Angel?"

"Evidently you need one," Aziraphale replied tartly.

Crowley finally let his eyes drift away from the angel to certain other novel features of the room. He _had_ had a bookcase in here already, but it had been quite sparsely occupied. It was full now. There were two more small bookcases, also fully loaded with leather-bound volumes, and a comfortable-looking armchair with a side table and lamp. The side table had a teacup and saucer on it.

"Did you...Did you _move in_ while I was asleep?"

Aziraphale snorted. "Don't be silly, dear boy!" Then his eyes followed the wave of Crowley's arm. "Well. I had to bring over some things to read. You really have been asleep a very long time. And you didn't have single comfortable chair in the house. I'm sorry, they do rather clash with your decorating style, don't they? Now that you're awake, I'll remove them."

He raised his hand as if to miracle them away, but Crowley caught it. "No, that's all right. They...they can stay. If you want."

Aziraphale's eyes did that delightful twinkly thing. "Really?"

"Yep. I mean...I never thought you'd be comfortable coming over here. But I want you to be. Comfortable, I mean. And here. You know, sometimes. If you feel like it."

The angel was straight up _beaming_ , now. "Oh, Crowley...Darling!"

And before the demon could process _that_ novel form of address, Aziraphale was kissing him. He tasted faintly like tea, and the croissants that were probably getting heedlessly crushed into the counterpane right now, but mostly of _angel_.

When Aziraphale pulled back a bit, Crowley thought he probably ought to say something. "Hrrgh. 'Ziraph...What?" _Oh, great. Good job. Very coherent._

Aziraphale leaned his forehead against the demon's. "My dear boy. I do love you so."

"Ngk. Uh. Love you too, Angel," Crowley croaked.

He could _feel_ the angel's chuckle. "I know."

 _Smug feathery bastard._ Crowley growled, and kissed his angel back harder, digging his fingers into those silver locks. Aziraphale merely gave a happy hum, and wound his arm around the demon's shoulders. Crowley ran a finger down the side of the angel's face as he nipped gently at his lower lip. Stupid fashion really, sideburns; but they felt better than they looked, at least when made of angelic curls.

"I'm probably an idiot for asking," Crowley said the next time he had breathing space, "But what happened to worrying about, you know. Upstairs. And the...fraternizing."

"Ah. Well. Gabriel did have some questions about how I was spending my time."

A chill ran down Crowley's back. "Oh?"

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes. But I told him to kindly mind his own business."

"You _what_?"

"And I've been giving some thought to this holy water business, dear. I'm afraid it simply won't do. But, if your colleagues should try to give you any trouble, I have a much better solution."

The angel pointed at a very familiar looking sword that was propped up against the wall near the door. He looked very pleased with himself.

Crowley groaned and threw himself back down on his pillow. "Fuck. This is a dream, isn't it?"

Aziraphale sighed. "I'm afraid so, my dear."

 _Of course it was a bloody dream. What were the odds of_ him _ever getting to have something this perfect?_

"Pretty low, that's true." Dream-Aziraphale said, answering the thought Crowley didn't think he'd said out loud. The angel patted his shoulder. "But think about it like this, dear. If you don't get out of your head and go make up with me, the odds are _exactly zero_ , aren't they?"

~~~

Aziraphale sighed. "You know, my dear, I probably should have done exactly that."

"No, you bloody well shouldn't have!" Crowley glared. "Why do you think that bit about you gleefully telling Gabriel to shove it - and apparently being allowed to do so without consequences - made me realize it was a dream?"

"All right, not _exactly_ that," the angel conceded. "I didn't have my own feelings sorted out well enough back then to express them in that manner. But...I did sometimes wonder if I could have woken you up if I had just managed to say or show what you meant to me."

The demon looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he sauntered over to the sofa and threw himself down on it dramatically. "Well, if you want to give it a go now..."

"Give what a go?"

Crowley grinned. "True love's kiss, or whatever it is you think might have helped me get my head out of my arse. Just do it, so you can stop mulling over it."

Aziraphale made an exasperated noise. "Crowley, really..."

The demon's only response was an exaggerated snoring noise.

Aziraphale couldn't help smiling fondly. "You really are the most irritating creature," he said, as he knelt down beside the couch. He took Crowley's hand.

"But I think I need that, my dear. Just think how obnoxiously stuffy I might get without you prodding me to try new things, or to see the world in different ways."

Crowley still lay quiet, and Aziraphale could feel the tears gathering in his eyes again, even though he knew that this was just a reenactment. "I've been trying to do it myself, you know. I can hear your voice in my head: your excitement over some new invention, the sarcastic comments when something is deemed 'good' merely for being quiet and conventional. But, oh, my dear. It's not enough. I don't want the memory of you, I want _you_ \- the real you, so vibrant and alive. I miss you so much. And that's why I couldn't give you the holy water, you see. It's too dangerous; even if you just tripped while handling it, you could be utterly destroyed. It wasn't about what heaven might think - I only said that because I know _you_ don't like to see _me_ in danger. But you should know that _I_ can't bear to think of a world that doesn't have you in it." He kissed Crowley's knuckles gently. "Please, let's talk about it. I'll find some other way to keep you safe. Only come back to me, my dear."

Crowley's golden eyes blinked open. "Hey, Angel," he said quietly.

Having gotten into the spirit of the thing, Aziraphale couldn't help but kiss him, anachronisms be buggered.

The demon chuckled. "Feel better?"

"I suppose. I still wish I had said it then."

Crowley looked thoughtful. "Well...you kind of did, really. Just in bits and pieces, and not all in words. I think on some level I knew you were there, that you were missing me and checking up on me; I just was so miserable it took a really long time for what my senses were picking up to sink into my subconscious."

Aziraphale smiled. "Well. At least if it happened these days, I'd have help. You might not have had other people back then as you claimed, but today if I couldn't snap you out of your funk you'd have your antichrist nephew bouncing on your head, and the other one on the phone shouting in your ear from across the Atlantic."

Crowley chuckled. Even if the angel would always be his favorite, he did have _people_ now, didn't he? A whole raft of human friends who actually knew about their whole occult-ethereal situation. "Ha! I suppose you're right. And if that didn't work, I'm sure you'd have Anathema waving burning herbs under my nose or John Constantine summoning me out of bed and into a freezing pool or something."7

"Pardon my language, dear, but you're damn right I would."

The demon grinned broadly. He still wasn't used to the angel swearing - and neither was Aziraphale, clearly - but he kind of loved it. "Anyway...You didn't say everything, but you let me know you wanted me back. And I might not have known it was your doing, but those reports were actually pretty helpful."

~~~

Crowley opened his eyes again. The room was as dark as he had left it, just a thin beam of light slipping through a crack in the heavy curtains. Uggh. His back hurt and his mouth tasted like dead spiders - hopefully not literally. And he was alone. _So this is reality, probably. Wahoo._

He sat up and tried to stretch out his creaking joints. How long had he been asleep? By the coating of dust on everything, it had to have been nearly a year, at least. Bless it. He'd probably have some explaining to do Down Below about the lack of quarterly reports. _Three or four missing memos isn't_ that _bad, though. I'm sure I can come up with something. I'll just...huh._

There was an envelope sitting on the bedside table, with "Crowley" written across it in Aziraphale's elegant script. The demon picked it up and sniffed. It was faint, but it still had the faint sunlight smell of an angelic miracle on it. Probably one that had been used to send it8. The note inside read:

_Dear Crowley,_

_I apologize for my behavior. I'm afraid I let my temper get the better of me. Should you wish to when you return, you may find me in the usual place. I have saved a case of your favorite Bordeaux 9. _

_Most sincerely,_

_Aziraphale_

Crowley swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. It might be a far cry from his dream, but the angel still wanted to see him. He was waiting for him. Crowley hoped he hadn't made him wait too long.

He started to worry about that a bit more when he opened the curtains and looked down in the street. The fashions had shifted _way_ too much for this to have just been an eleven-month nap. Those hilariously huge fire-hazard hoop skirts were entirely gone. Now the ladies' skirts fell straight from their hips, some of them were wearing pin-tucked blouses and jackets, and the ringlets and bonnets had given way to puffy mounds of hair topped with large feather-embellished hats. A casual observer might not have noticed much change in the gentlemen, but Crowley's keen eye spotted a leaner cut to the jackets, more waistcoats in contrasting colors, and rounded bowlers replacing tall stovepipe top hats. _Shit. How..._ The demon glanced back at his rooms, wishing he could double-check the depth of dust, but he had already miracled them clean.

Crowley conjured himself an appropriate-looking suit and apprehensively went downstairs to buy a paper. His jaw dropped as he looked at the date:

February 3, 1901.

 _Oh, fuck_. He'd slept for _thirty-nine goddamn fucking years_!

His eyes skimmed over the headlines, though his racing mind could barely process them. Queen Victoria was lying in state in St. George's chapel; King Edward's coronation had been scheduled for the next year. Giuseppe Verdi was dead too - Aziraphale was probably upset about that. The British and the Boers were fighting over South Africa. Australia was unified and had a prime minister now. There were ads for some kind of machine called a _typewriter_ , with smiling ladies perched in front of them; and for something called a _telephone_ that by inference must be some kind of long-distance communication device; and candle-bulb thingies that ran off electricity; and, most amazingly, some kind of awesome-looking carriage thing that moved around without horses.

_Shit, shit, shit._ Even if Aziraphale didn't glare him to death for taking so long to reply to his note, the Lords of Hell were literally going to rake him over the coals for this. _No, wait. You're the goddamned Serpent. You can handle this._ Crowley took a deep breath. Right. There was no way he could get up to speed fast enough to pretend he'd actually been involved with any of this stuff. So. He'd have to claim something had taken him out of commission. _Ah - Stuck in a summoning circle, maybe?_ Yeah, Beelzebub would probably believe he was incompetent enough to get trapped in a summoning circle for the better part of four decades. Especially if he claimed the humans had had some kind of angelic assistance. Which would be perfect reason to spend a good bit of time hanging around near his 'adversary' - researching opportunities for revenge, obviously.

Crowley returned to his townhouse, feeling a lot more confident. He muttered some words over the fireplace. The demon who answered eventually patched him through to Dagon.

"Hey, Lord Dagon..."

But before he could say: _Sorry I'm late, ran into a sticky situation_ , Dagon's face grinned at him out of the flames. "Crowley! Excellent work with China!"

 _What?_ Crowley coughed. "Oh, yeah. Glad you liked it. One of my better attempts, I think."

"And those new German naval laws," Dagon continued. "Lord Beelzebub agrees they have real potential."

"Yep. Potential. That's what I thought too," Crowley agreed, feeling slightly faint.

"Anyway, I know you've got something big planned, so I won't keep you."

"Something big. Right. Absolutely."

Dagon's face disappeared, and the fire was just a normal coal fire once more. Crowley huffed out a breath. Hell's tendency to credit him with all the terrible ideas humans came up with when he just happened to be in their general vicinity was a bit distressing. But it was hard to deny that it was useful.

_Right, then. Now for the scary bit._

Crowley was a jittering ball of nerves for the whole walk down to Soho. The streets, the people, everything was so different. But as soon as he stood outside the bookshop, seeing the glow in the windows that somehow made the snowy streets feel warmer, that anxiety started to melt away. _This_ , at least, had not changed. He reached out for the door and it swung open under his touch, like always. Crowley took a deep breath and stepped inside, switching on his customary swagger. "Hey, Angel!"

Aziraphale stepped out from behind a bookshelf and nearly dropped his teapot when saw the demon lounging against the doorframe. "Crowley!" A host of emotions, mostly too brief to identify, flickered over his face.

Crowley sauntered over. "You said you had wine? Thought these might go with it." He pulled a box of chocolates out from behind his back and held it out.

Aziraphale didn't take it immediately, and Crowley's confident grin almost faltered. Then he noticed that the angel was staring at the tiny bouquet in the buttonhole of the demon's sharp grey suit, consisting of a red zinnia and a sprig of honeysuckle backed with a hazel leaf10.

Aziraphale's expression softened, and he took the box. "Thank you, my dear," he said quietly. "Is...is that a new waistcoat?"

Crowley looked down at the red-and-black dragon-patterned silk. "Yeah. Do you like it?"

"Stylish as always, dear boy."

Crowley looked the Aziraphale up and down. He seemed to be wearing the exact same velveteen waistcoat and tartan cravat as the last time they met. "You never change, do you Angel?" Before the angel could bristle too much, he added: "Didn't say that was a bad thing! The world has been moving pretty fast the last century or so. Kind of...reassuring, seeing you. Still being you. Doing things your way, at your pace."

 _Uggh, what are you doing, being all awkward and sentimental?_ Crowley berated himself.

But Aziraphale didn't seem to mind. He smiled, somewhat bashfully. "Well. Would you like to sit down?"

The demon tried not to look too relieved. "Silly question, Angel." _The answer is always yes._

1\. Well, not really random. For instance, several hedge funds had recently made large donations to charities for trans kids - though no one in the company could remember who was responsible for that decision. Riot police attempting to disperse protesters had found their tear gas canisters backfiring in their faces before they could use them. And neo-Nazis across the country were baffled and annoyed to discover that all their credit cards were suddenly declined and their local bars were always mysteriously out of beer whenever they visited. Setting up his garden delivery so as to annoy his own neighborhood and partner was more of a reflexive slip than a part of the recent pattern.Back

2\. Apparently, to the Victorians, nothing said "Christmas" like .[warring ants, birds drowning themselves in punch bowls, or sinister goats](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gusmXlrHqtY) Back

3\. Not that this would have been successful, given that neither of them technically required oxygen, but as their corporations didn't always remember that fact such an attempt could get unpleasant after ten or fifteen minutes.Back

4\. See "the light that is coming in the morning"Back

5\. Which, Crowley thought, must have been rather confusing to the other members. And probably frustrating, if they had an ounce of taste.Back

6\. See "Warning coloration"Back

7\. See "Synchronicity" or "A price to pay".Back

8\. Aziraphale had brought it himself, of course; the miracle had simply preserved the paper against the effects of time.Back

9\. The angel hadn't the heart to add in the letter that, due to the accidental introduction of the _Phylloxera_ insect, it was the _last_ case from that particular vineyard.Back

10\. In the Victorian language of flowers, zinnia = "I mourn your absence" or "thoughts of absent friends", honeysuckle = fidelity/devoted affection, and hazel = reconciliation.Back

**Author's Note:**

> Pajamas did start to be worn by men in the Victorian era, replacing long loose nightshirts. They didn't catch on widely until the 1890s, but Crowley would probably have been an early adopter. 
> 
> Regarding the list of Aziraphale's other scandalous 19th century associates: Karl Marx wrote 'Capital' while living in Soho in the 1850s. Emmeline Pankhurst was a militant suffragette known for chaining herself to railings and going on hunger strikes using other such disruptive tactics. George Sand, born Aurore Dupin, was a French author - more famous than Victor Hugo in her time - with a penchant for wearing male clothing, smoking cigars, and having numerous famous lovers including Chopin and Charles Didier. Fanny and Stella were born Thomas Boulton and Frederick Park. They were arrested for "conspiring and inciting persons to commit an unnatural offense," causing some panic among their high-ranking male admirers - but, somewhat surprisingly, the jury declared them innocent. 
> 
> The wine industry was in crisis during much of the last half of the century due to the introduction of the aphid-like _Phylloxera_ insect from eastern North America. _Vitis vinifera_ , the wine grape, has no natural resistance, and since the pest attacks the roots it is hard to spray. European vineyards were devastated, and winemakers fleeing the disaster helped start up or bolster new wine-growing regions in Australia, South Africa, Chile, and California. But soon the insect followed them there. The only solution turned out to be grafting the wine grapes onto the resistant roots of American grape species. The French in particular resisted this change, but all but a few vineyards - on unusual soil types where _Phylloxera_ can't live - rely on grafted plants.
> 
> It's a good thing Crowley is a quick study with human technology, because even with sleeping through less than forty years he would have missed all the inventions mentioned here - fountain pens, gramophones, typewriters, telephones, the widespread use of electricity, cars - plus quite a few things with good demonic potential including dynamite, traffic lights, mail order catalogs, moving pictures, and escalators.
> 
> The events Dagon - thanks to Aziraphale's reports - is giving Crowley credit for are the Boxer Rebellion, an anti-imperialist uprising between 1899 and 1901 that included the massacre of Christians and even bigger atrocities by an eight-nation alliance of imperial powers, and a set of laws that started to be passed in 1898 that allowed for the expansion of the German Navy to create one capable of competing with Britain that would also assist Germany in becoming a bigger colonial power. 
> 
> Sources for language of flowers:  
> https://www.romancemfa.com/victorian-language-of-flowers-list/  
> https://www.almanac.com/content/flower-meanings-language-flowers


End file.
